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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28744602">Growing Ahead of My Time</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedCrimez89/pseuds/RedCrimez89'>RedCrimez89</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>(mentioned) - Fandom, Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Identity Crisis (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bad Parents Jack and Janet Drake, Barely mentioned tbh, Dead Jack Drake, Dead Janet Drake, Drake Manor, Gen, Growing Up, Implied/Referenced Character Death, No Plot/Plotless, Nostalgia, Reminiscing, Tim Drake Angst, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Wayne Manor, but the sad kind, everyone other than Tim r brief mentions, it’s kinda just Tim being like “damn wish I never came here”, pls give him 1, sigh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 14:02:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,361</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28744602</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedCrimez89/pseuds/RedCrimez89</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim revisits his childhood home and promptly realizes something: he never should’ve came back on the first place.</p><p>——</p><p>  <em>“We are the sum total of our experiences. Those experiences — be they positive or negative — make us the person we are, at any given point in our lives. And, like a flowing river, those same experiences, and those yet to come, continue to influence and reshape the person we are, and the person we become. None of us are the same as we were yesterday, nor will be tomorrow.”</em></p><p>- B.J Neblett</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack Drake &amp; Janet Drake &amp; Tim Drake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Growing Ahead of My Time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So I was thinking about how younger people can sometimes be more mature than older people because of the experiences they’ve been through and then I was like, “ what would that be like for Tim?” Tim was much more mature than his peers as a kid, no doubt. His parents were never home, he spent most of his life taking care of himself, and everything he has went through makes him emotionally and mentally older than someone his age probably should be. Out experiences make us who we are and I wanted to kind of flesh out who Tim became after he experienced Bruce’s death, his parents, his friends, the loss of Robin, etc. </p><p>I hope I did this well?? And I hope Tim isn’t too out of character? I wanted this to be my first work of 2021 because I thought it’d be meaningful, so hopefully it is? Idk. Enjoy’!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p3">Tim’s childhood, for how little it lasted, had been a lonely one. He had never minded of course. How could he? That was just the way life was for Tim. Quiet. Solitary. Desolate. He took care of himself, kept his grades up. You know, the standard stuff.</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">It hadn’t mattered then. </span>
</p><p class="p2">It doesn’t matter now.</p><p class="p2">Tim still remembers the nights where he had been desperate enough to try and call his parents. He would collect the minuscule fragments of hope that were scattered along his bedroom floor and wait until the sun peaked up from the horizon with pure gold light, awaiting the moment where his phone would let out shrill rings, begging for him to answer. It had never came in the end. Not the ringing of his phone, not the vibrations of a call. And so Tim would fall back asleep at the crack of dawn with gold streaming through his curtains, tears in his eyes and his phone clutched tightly in his hand like a lifeline, unable to let go. Because letting go had meant believing that his parents had forgotten about him. It meant giving up.</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Back then, Tim had been too young to understand that sometimes, you had to give up on everyone before they could give up on you. He knew better now of course. It hadn’t taken too much time. A couple of missed calls, deleted voicemails, and unread text messages later, Tim had stopped hoping and stopped waiting and stopped dreaming. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He was done.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">It was over. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Never again.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Regardless of his true age, Tim thinks those were the nights in which he grew just a little bit older.</span>
</p><p class="p3"><span class="s2">And the </span> <span class="s3"> <em>best</em> </span> <span class="s2"> part was, it wouldn’t be the last time! He would grow, and grow, and grow. And it was okay, right? At least he was smarter now? At least he was more useful now?</span></p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">So for what Tim thought might be the hundredth millionth time in his life, he grew just a little bit older, right then and there.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">The door to The Drake Mansion creaked loudly as it slowly swung open to reveal the interior of what used to be his childhood home. Suddenly, Tim was 10 years old again, rushing through the door with a backpack and rare smile.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">That week his parents had declared they would be spending and entire month with Tim. No business. No archaeology. No last minute meetings or business trips that were held far, far away. It was just going to be him and his parents. He had thought just as much too. Until he found them standing at the front door hauling suitcases, fully prepared to leave without even so much as mentioning it to him.</span>
</p><p class="p2"><em> <span class="s3">“ Timothy, darling,” </span> </em> <span class="s2">His mother had said.</span> <em> <span class="s3"> “ You know how much we wanted to spend this month together, but unfortunately, things just didn’t turn out that way. We sent you a text. Didn’t you see it dear?”</span> </em></p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">There hadn’t been a text.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">There probably hadn’t been a meeting either.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Maybe they hated Tim and were running away from him all the time back then, too afraid to face the child they had gotten. The failure. That day he had kept his mouth shut and muttered his goodbyes, left alone once again to fend off the loneliness that creeped up his spine and settled in his bones.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He felt that same sickening feeling crawling up his arms again, clawing at his back until there was nothing left his skeleton. It worked.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Every. Single. Time.</span>
</p><p class="p2">The house looked painfully similar as it had a year ago. For the year of neglect that had been bestowed upon the house, it looked nothing close to derelict. Sure, most of the furniture was covered in stalk white sheets and a lot of the painting and decor spotting the house had been thrusted into storage, but other than that there was nothing different about it other than the thin layers of dust that coated most things.</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Tim almost wishes the house had blown to smithereens in some sort of crazy, life altering events. Maybe then he could forget. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel like a child breaking into their fathers’ closet or a stranger imposing on a private moment.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Much like the old hinges of the front door, the floorboards of the stairs creak too as he ascends up them, hand gliding against the smooth wood of the banister. If he closes his eyes long enough, Tim can imagine a younger, only slightly happier version of himself sliding down them when no one was around, laughing at the top of his lungs. One time, he had fell right off the railing and crashed onto the ground right on his funny bone. It was a weird, indescribable kind of pain, but at least his bone wasn’t broken like the nearby vase that couldn’t say the same.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">His feet guide him through the maze of hallways off pure muscle memory from the days where he would quietly walk down the hall, head hung down and books clutched tightly to his chest, pressure behind his eyes and backpack heavier on his shoulders than it had ever been. Being quiet had meant company back then. Even with his chosen era of silence, no one had ever seemed to stick around for too long.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">The door to his room is painted in a bright white shade and the door handle is gold, not chipped at all. He turns the knob slowly, only hesitating for a second before it’s thrust open. The room is a mess. Clothes are stranded all over the floor, the false boards of wood under the carpet are removed for all to see, and the bed is unmade with the sheets gliding down the side, pillows haphazardly chucked onto the mattress. The desk is just as bad. Piles of paper are strewn across the surface and there is an old textbook that is flipped to a random page, open as if Tim was still currently using it to study. There was an empty shoebox on the floor for whatever reason he had, and really, he should’ve cleaned his room before leaving to live with Bruce.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He didn’t, obviously. Maybe because it was too painful to do it, and not because of the obvious mess he had created a year ago. It was because Tim had grown up here. He had matured here, had spent many sleepless nights staring at this exact ceiling in this exact room on this exact bed. He had sat at that desk and planned how he was going to talk to Batman, had developed his photos there and laid out the facts of Batman and Robin when he had been nine. This place was his history. Not his home, never his home, but the place he spent his time before he really discovered what home was supposed to mean. It hurt to leave like this, especially with the knowledge that not even a couple hallways down, there was a permanent stain of blood on the ground that only Tim could see.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Regardless, he had left. </span>
</p><p class="p2">Tim had gotten new books, new clothing, new everything. Anything old that held sentimental value was kept of course, but it hasn’t seen the light of day since the moment Tim had left this house for what was meant to be the last time.</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Back then he had wanted to forget. Forget about Janet and Jack and the loneliness he had greeted after school like an old friend. He didn’t want to remember school, or his perfect report cards, or the expired debit card that sat in the back of his desk drawer, ready for him to purchase whatever he needed.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Tim Drake had wanted to forget and it hadn’t worked. Not in a million years. </span>
</p><p class="p2">And so for what must’ve been the trillionth time In The History of Mentally Aging or I’m-physically-eighteen-but-mentally-I’m-forty-five, Tim grew up just a little faster, just a little older, and he found himself wishing he could turn back time and do it all again, if only so he could know not to make the mistake of stepping foot into a place called loneliness.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I think I wanna spend a lot more time writing Tim this year. I feel like he’s kinda underrated so I think I’ll jump on the Tim Drake train and see where it takes me.</p><p>This is set in the Red Robin comics by the way, so Bruce is still lost in time. I like to think he ran off to his childhood home at some point while he was trying to figure himself out? And I think the Drake Mansion is the definition of loneliness. This kid needs some TLC I swear.</p><p>Comments and constructive criticism are highly encouraged as always! Have a good day :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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